"Yes, Father," Phostis said unenthusiastically. Then he asked, "Why couldn't you simply have your scribes write out as many copies of the order as you need and distribute them to the officers?"
"Because I just told you to do this, by the good god," Krispos snapped. Phostis' glare made him realize that was taking authority too far. He added, "Besides, I have good practical reasons for doing it this way. Officers get too many parchments as is; who but Phos can say which ones they'll read and which ones they'll toss into a pigeonhole or into a well without ever unsealing them? But a visit from the Avtokrator's son— that they'll remember, and what he says to them. And this is an important order. Do you see?"
"I suppose so," Phostis said, again without great spirit. But he did nod. "I'll do as you say, Father."
"Well, I thank your gracious Majesty for that," Krispos said. Phostis jerked as if a mosquito had just bitten him in a tender place. He spun round and stalked away. Krispos immediately regretted his sarcasm, but nothing could recall a word once spoken. He'd learned that a long time before, and should have had it down pat by now. He stamped his foot, angry at himself and Phostis both.
He peered out toward the docks. The fleet had come close enough to let him pick out individuals. The fat fellow with six parasol bearers around him would be Strabonis, the provincial governor; the scrawny one with three, Asdrouvallos, the city eparch. He wondered how long they'd been standing there, waiting for the fleet to arrive. The longer it was, the more ceremony they'd insist on once he actually got his feet on dry land. He intended to endure as much as he could, but sometimes that wasn't much.
Along with the dignitaries stood a lean, wiry fellow in nondescript clothes and a broad-brimmed leather traveler's hat. Krispos was much more interested in seeing him than either Strabonis or Asdrouvallos: imperial scouts and couriers had an air about them that, once recognized, was unmistakable. The governor and the eparch would make speeches. From the courier, Krispos would get real news.
He called for Evripos. His second son was no quicker appearing than Phostis had been. Frowning, Krispos said, "If I'd wanted slowcoaches, I'd have made snails my spatharioi, not you two."
"Sorry, Father," Evripos said, though he didn't sound particularly sorry.
At the moment, Krispos wished Dara had borne girls. Sons-in-law might have been properly grateful to him for their elevation in life, where his own boys seemed to take status for granted. On the other hand, sons-in-law might also have wanted to elevate themselves further, regardless of whether Krispos was ready to depart this life.
He made himself remember why he'd summoned Evripos. "When we land, I want you to check the number and quality of remounts available here, and also to make sure the arsenal has enough arrows in it to let us go out and fight. Is that martial enough for you?"
"Yes, Father. I'll see to it," Evripos said.
"Good. I want you back with what I need to know before you sleep tonight. Make sure you take special notice of anything lacking, so we can get word ahead to our other supply dumps and have their people lay hold of it for us."
"Tonight?" Now Evripos didn't try to hide his dismay. "I was hoping to—"
"To find someone soft and cuddly?" Krispos shook his head. "I don't care what you do along those lines after you take care of what I ask of you. If you work fast, you'll have plenty of time for other things. But business first."
"You don't tell Katakolon that," Evripos said darkly.
"You complain because I don't treat you the same as Phostis, and now you complain because I don't treat you the same as Katakolon. You can't have it both ways, son. If you want the authority that comes with power, you have to take the responsibility that comes with it, too." When Evripos didn't answer, Krispos added, "Don't scant the job. Men's lives ride on it."
"Oh, I'll take care of it, Father. I said I would, after all. And besides, you'll probably have someone else taking care of it, too, so you can check his answers against mine. That's your style, isn't it?" Evripos departed without giving Krispos a chance to answer.
Krispos wondered whether he should have left his sons back in Videssos the city. They quarreled with one another, they quarreled with him, and they didn't do half as much as might some youngster from no particular family who hoped to be noticed. But no—they needed to learn what war was about, and they needed to let the army see them. An Avtokrator who could not control his soldiers would end up with soldiers controlling him.
The Triumphant eased into place alongside the dock. Strabonis peered down into the ship. Seen close up, he looked as if he'd yield gallons of oil if rendered down. Even his voice was greasy. "Welcome, welcome, thrice welcome, your imperial Majesty," he declared. "We honor you for coming to the defense of our province, and are confident you shall succeed in utterly crushing the impious heretics who scourge us."
"I'm glad of your confidence, and I hope I will deserve it," Krispos answered as sailors stretched a gangplank painted with imperial crimson from his vessel to the dock. He, too, remained confident he would beat the Thanasioi. He'd beaten every enemy he'd faced in a long reign save only Makuran—and no Avtokrator since the fierce Stavrakios had ever really beaten Makuran, while even Stavrakios' victory did not prove lasting. But Strabonis sounded as if defeating the heretics would be easy as a promenade down Middle Street. Krispos knew better than that.
He walked across the gangplank to the dock. Strabonis folded his fat form into a proskynesis. "Rise," Krispos said. After a week aboard the rolling ship, solid ground seemed to sway beneath his feet.
Asdrouvallos prostrated himself next. As he got back to his feet, he started to cough, and kept on coughing till his wizened face turned almost as gray as his beard. A tiny fleck of blood-streaked foam appeared at one corner of his mouth. A quick flick of his tongue swept it away. "Phos grant your Majesty a pleasant stay in Nakoleia," he said, his voice gravelly. "Success against the foe as well."
"Thank you, excellent eparch," Krispos said. "I hope you've seen a healer-priest for that cough?"
"Oh, aye, your Majesty; more than one, as a matter of fact." Asdrouvallos' bony shoulders moved up and down in a shrug.
They've done the best they can for me, but it's not enough. I'll go on as long as the good god wills, and afterward, well, afterward I hope to see him face to face."
"May that day be years away," Krispos said, though Asdrouvallos, who was not much above his own age, looked as if he might expire at any moment. Krispos added, "By all means consider your oration as given. I do not require you to tax your lungs. Videssos has quite enough taxes without that."
"Your Majesty is gracious," Asdrouvallos said. In truth, Krispos was concerned for the eparch's health. And in showing that concern, he'd also managed to take a formidable bite out of speeches yet to come.
He wished he could have found some equally effective and polite way to make Strabonis shut up. The provincial governor's speech was long and florid, modeled after the rhetoric-soaked orations that had been the style in Videssos the city before Krispos' time—and probably would be again, once his peasant-bred impatience for fancy talk was safely gone. He tried clearing his throat; Strabonis ignored him. At last he started shifting from foot to foot as if he urgently needed to visit the jakes. That got Strabonis' attention. As soon as he subsided, so did Krispos' wiggles. The governor sent the Avtokrator an injured look Krispos pretended not to see.